


The Green-Eyed Monster

by PhrancesP



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:38:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhrancesP/pseuds/PhrancesP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne feels a bit inadequate compared to St. Kilda's voluptuous new widow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Green-Eyed Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Kerry Greenwood for creating Phryne Fisher, and thank you to Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries for creating so much unresolved tension between Phryne and Jack Robinson that I am compelled to write these stories while I wait, impatiently, for Season 3...

The Green-Eyed Monster  
By PhrancesP

I set this story after the Christmas in July episode at the end of Season 2.

Phryne Fisher descended her staircase a bit later than usual on the 26th of July, 1929. She noticed the effects of the powerful cocktails that Mr. Butler had poured the previous evening in honor of Christmas in July, a Melbourne tradition that had been a welcome reprieve from the horrors of her recent trip to a snowbound chalet. Phryne was typically a bit waspish on these types of mornings. Her domestic staff was well trained and prepared, as usual, to assist her as she eased into the day. Phryne slid into her seat and took a fortifying sip of hot, sweet tea, and a tentative bit of buttered toast. More tea, more toast, slowly, and she thought she might live, after all. The newspaper was folded near her plate and she opened it with a languid hand, her silk robe slipping back over her porcelain wrist.

The news was a bit of a shock. In the early hours of the morning there had been a murder. Phryne read with interest. “Mr. Oliver Watkins, of St. Kilda, was found murdered in his beachfront mansion.” Right across the street! A murder had occurred while she was asleep, dreaming of sugarplums and mistletoe. “Dot! Is this our Mr. Watkins, dead in his house?” The door to the kitchen swung open and Dorothy Williams, companion to the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, poked her head out. “Yes, Mr. Butler says that the police have been on the scene since before daylight.” Phryne gulped down the last of her tea and waved her toast at Dot. “They will want to talk to the neighbors, of course. I’d better get dressed!”

Phryne dressed quickly, but with care. A pair of dove grey wide-legged trousers, a cool white and grey V-neck blouse with fluttering cap sleeves, sandals, sunglasses, and her favorite white canvas duster and cap. With a swipe of bold red lipstick she was ready to go. Somehow she knew that she would see Detective Inspector Jack Robinson at the crime scene. If the opportunity arose, she would investigate why he had not kissed her under the mistletoe last night. There was some unfinished business between them, and she was not good at waiting patiently.

Out on the street Phryne wound her way assertively between the police vehicles before she ran into a solid obstacle: Constable Hugh Collins. “Miss Fisher! I must ask you to leave. A crime was committed here early this morning, and we are talking to the victim’s family.” Phryne stopped short of patting Hugh on the arm. There were other members of the City South police force in sight, and she did not want to embarrass him. “I won’t interfere, Hugh, you know, but I do think that my closest neighbor will want some support in her time of need.” A window opened above them, and a voice floated down. “Phryne, darling, it’s just too, too awful. Won’t you come in?” Phryne pointed up at the window and grinned at Hugh. “How can I refuse my dear friend Laura Watkins?” Constable Collins looked uncertainly at the window and at Miss Fisher. He compromised. “I will walk in with you and we can ask the Inspector together.”

Mrs. Laura Watkins rose in greeting from her fainting couch in a calculated motion that caused her peignoir to fall open over the ivory slip that served as her nightgown. Her mass of copper curls spread over her creamy shoulders and her green eyes were clear and bright. “Phryne, you are such an angel. Have I interrupted your constitutional along the beach, my dear? I do love your little cap. So adorably boyish. There has been the most awful mistake. Oliver is dead, poor lamb, and these gentlemen have been simply battering me with questions. Just ghastly. I feel quite weak.” She returned to her couch and arranged herself artistically. Anyone with keen observational skills could make an educated guess that Mrs. Watkins was au naturel beneath her nightgown, and the cool ocean breeze from the window only served to confirm the fact. As it happened, the room contained several keen observers, including Jack, and Phryne tightened her lips slightly before replying. 

“Laura, I am so sorry to hear about Oliver. I know how much he meant to you.” Phryne thought of the late Mr. Watkins’ immense wealth, his old age, his poor health, and his flabby physique. “You must be devastated.” While she spoke she looked around the room, noting the moss green upholstery, the copper accent pieces, and the gold tones in the Persian rug. The room had been designed to complement its gorgeous mistress, and Phryne felt childish in her duster and sandals. “Now that you are here, Phryne darling, the Inspector can proceed with his probing investigation and his search for the truth.” Mrs. Watkins turned to Jack, straining the fine silk of her gown across her ample decolletage. “Do you want to search me?”

Jack spoke for the first time. “No, no, Mrs. Watkins. That won’t be necessary. We do not believe that you are concealing any dangerous weapons on your person. I believe that we are finished with your dressing room now, if you would like to change your attire.” Laura Watkins rose gracefully and stretched her arms above her head, causing Constable Collins to drop his notebook. Shaking back her curls, she walked over to Jack Robinson and curled her hand around the lapel of his coat. “Thank you, Inspector. I have confidence that, in your capable hands, this investigation will be thorough. If there is anything I can do to help you … dangerous weapon … more than willing … later tonight.” 

Phryne could not hear everything that Mrs. Watkins whispered in Jack’s ear before she left the room, but that might have been because her heart was hammering so loudly. She took a deep breath and pasted on a grin before turning to greet Jack. “Miss Fisher,” he said, before she could speak. “Thank you for a lovely evening. As you can see, my holiday ended rather abruptly.” Phryne smiled. She brushed off her intense spurt of jealousy and focused on the murder. “What happened here, Jack? I didn’t hear or see anything unusual last night.” Jack smiled in return. He was genuinely glad to have an excuse to have her on his team for this investigation. Mrs. Watkins was likely to be a bit of a handful, and he would be glad to have Phryne around to keep the lovely widow in check. “Mr. Watkins was found in his bed. He appears to have suffocated, but we cannot find the murder weapon. We are still searching, of course. His wife was asleep, according to her statement, and she woke up to find him dead next to her in the bed. She called the police, and here we are.” 

Phryne raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for husbands and wives of the Watkins’s social class to sleep in the same bed. She bit her lip and looked at Jack. What would he think of that? Had he shared a bed with Rosie, when they were married? “Jack, I know that this may sound odd, but what was Mrs. Watkins doing in her husband’s bedroom? This room is hers, of course. I can tell by the way that it is decorated.” Jack nodded slowly. “Yes, they were sleeping in the bed in his bedroom. You are right. But, how did he die? There is no sign of an intruder. The staff did not hear anything unusual.”

Laura Watkins entered her boudoir wearing a bright pink summer dress with a low cut that accentuated her fine figure. She was tying the ribbons at the bodice as she walked towards Jack and Phryne. To Phryne it seemed that Mrs. Watkins was in danger of falling out of the neckline of her dress, but then the ribbons cinched in, gravity was overcome once more, and the crisis was averted. “Jack,” she gasped, turning to him. His eyes were glazed over and his jaw was slack. He was staring. “Jack!” He snapped his head up and away from the widow’s display to look at Phryne in surprise. “I need to speak to you, Inspector Robinson, in private.” He nodded at Phryne, and they stepped out into the hall.

“Jack, you need to look at her breasts,” said Phryne. Jack’s eyes opened wide, and he turned a bit pink around the edges. “Miss Fisher, I don’t think …,” he began. “No, Jack. Listen to me. Someone needs to examine Mrs. Watkins, to look for bruising, any broken capillaries, signs that her breasts were compressed tightly, last night, in bed.” Phryne paused, looking meaningfully up at Jack. She waited. And waited. Jack still looked baffled. “The murder weapons, Jack. She knew that you wouldn’t search her, but she was concealing the murder weapons, underneath her nightgown.”

Jack froze. He looked away from Phryne. His jaw clenched, and then he startled her with a laugh. “Thank you, Miss Fisher. I will ask Dr. MacMillan to join us as soon as possible.” Phryne blushed, to her surprise, and laughed, too. “Mr. Watkins must have thought he had died and gone to heaven … and then he did!” Jack smirked, just a bit, at that. “Much safer to be a leg man,” and he winked and tipped his hat to Phryne, as he escorted her to the door.


End file.
